


Interlude VI

by AnnetheCatDetective



Series: Interludes [6]
Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Feeding Kink, M/M, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23545735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: Some dialogue from AIOS. The night of their first time, Jack takes the opportunity to explore the desires he's been getting in touch with for the first time.Literally this is just about the cake and Jack's feelings, like it doesn't even cover the portion of the evening where they actually have sex, it just goes into Jack's thoughts/desires and how he feels about having those desires at this particular point in time, and how well he does and doesn't understand himself.
Relationships: Jack Walker/Llewellyn Watts
Series: Interludes [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679167
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37





	Interlude VI

Admittedly, Jack had been disappointed, the first time Llewellyn had asked him about dancing, to discover absolutely none of the things he’d said about leading and following and what to do with his hands were anything other than earnestly about dancing, but he’s come around on the subject. It’s not quite a waltz, but it’s not quite not one, the thing they manage, weaving around his furniture. 

It feels good. It feels good, holding Llewellyn in his arms, the way they shift into something more intimate than a proper waltz might be. To feel the way Llewellyn moves with him, following his lead, their bodies in tune… 

He’s so _sweet_ , Llewellyn… it might have been a little misunderstanding, to start, but ‘lamb’ suits him, it really does. He’d brought Jack flowers, he’d flirted, he’d lit up so bright teaching him about wine tasting, and… 

And he had apologized for being perhaps too forward, but earlier, when Jack had offered him that taste of pastry cream from the cake he’d brought, he had been shameless, and the feeling had been… it had been everything. That brief moment of confidence in him, _seduction_ , the wet heat of his mouth, the caress of his tongue and how much more _aware_ Jack had been of him, the heightened sensitivity he’d felt. And… the pastry cream, which had been a large part of it. And all the things he had wanted...

“May I-- may I do something?” He asks, as they turn back towards the table, not yet disconnected from the close posture of their dance. “I-- you can say no, it’s a silly request. It’s just been hard to dismiss, since earlier.”

“What is it?” Llewellyn asks, as easy as that. Only it’s not easy, Jack hardly knows how to ask it. All he knows is that if he doesn’t, he’ll regret it. If he doesn’t chase this feeling, he will be... _incomplete_.

“I’d like to-- I’d like to feed you dessert. Just… I don’t know. You can say no, as I said, it’s sil--”

“Please.” 

He looks up, surprised. And Llewellyn holds his gaze-- he doesn’t flinch from this. He bites his lip and he ducks his head, and looks up at him as he had before, eyes a man could fall into, and a _longing_. Maybe not for the same things Jack longs for, but for Jack. For whatever will make him happy, whatever will keep them connected, whatever will lead to something _more_.

And this will… once Jack starts, he doesn’t know how he could possibly hold back, not with everything he’s felt just watching him… To be involved, to be any small part of what Llewellyn feels, enjoys, draws pleasure from… 

And to make love to him, to kiss the sugar from his lips and lay him down and show him how beautiful he finds him…

He pulls their chairs closer to the corner of the table, pours out another glass of wine in hopes they might share, and even the idea of his lips gracing the same lip of a glass as Llewellyn’s is exciting now. The thought of Llewellyn’s lips so much more intoxicating with the promise of being allowed to slide bites of cake past them, and Jack doesn’t know if he wants to scream at himself to ask what’s wrong with him, or if he wants to scream because he _knows_ , he knows too well already, but if Llewellyn doesn’t mind it, is it so bad? There are worse things to like too much than this. And most of those are ultimately harmless anyhow, he thinks. They just don’t hold the same fascination for him-- but wouldn’t he indulge Llewellyn in any of them?

It’s difficult to imagine Llewellyn being interested, in some of the things Jack knows of people liking, the way he must admit he likes the thought of feeding him, but still, if he asked for any of them, Jack would oblige him gladly. At least once to see if he could like it, too.

He doesn’t take down a clean plate and portion out a serving, he can’t make himself go through any extra steps, hasn’t the patience now. Not when something he’s desired so much is at hand, and he can simply bring the cake box to the table, a fork. 

He makes the first bite a generous one. He has seen Llewellyn’s capacity, seen how he prefers to enjoy food. Really, that’s what started it all, how he prefers to enjoy food. And he is… _obliging_ , now. He opens his mouth wide to receive, his lashes dark against his cheeks as he closes his mouth around it, as he lets out that first hum of pleasure. The little wag of his head after the fork slides clean from between his lips, before he opens his eyes again. 

“Is it-- do you like it?” Jack asks, all breathless anticipation, all nerves.

“Yes.”

“It’s not… this isn’t too strange?”

“If I am any authority on strange, Jack, it’s not from the perspective of normal.” Llewellyn says flatly, gives him a look that might have made him laugh if he wasn’t dealing with something rather enormous. It’s a fair point, Llewellyn is refreshingly far from normal, he is… he is a beautiful kind of strange. There are faraway worlds in his dark eyes, there are undreamt of things he might make real. He is a wonder, and Jack loves him for it. He wants him strange-- he wants to be strange together, when he’s with him.

“I said I’d wanted to do this, since earlier--”

“With the pastry cream?” Llewellyn nods, and Jack mirrors it. He’d certainly wanted to then. And he’d wanted to at the book club, though he never could have done in front of everyone, without crossing some line and embarrassing them both, but…

It’s been much longer than that.

“But… I think… since the night you came to me, when you really did need me. Not for this, but--” He finds himself distracted by the fall of curls over Llewellyn’s brow, reaches up to smooth them back from his face, to feel how thick and glossy his hair is. “You were shaking so badly… and you came to me, and it meant something to me that you would. But you managed taking care of yourself once I got food to you, so I-- it seemed a poor time to ask you to be any more helpless than you came to me as.”

Indeed, he’d felt guilty, taking so much pleasure in caring for him when he’d been so distraught, when he’d wanted so badly not to need it, but… but it had satisfied something deep inside him to be turned to, and to be useful to him. It felt so good to be able to simply _do_ things for him, concrete things which made him safer and more comfortable. It felt so good to see him come back from that awful place and come into himself, and know that his care had helped. Llewellyn had been so lost, so frightened of something Jack had struggled to understand at first-- he’d been so afraid, himself, that someone might have discovered them, that Llewellyn might have lost his job or been threatened… and then when it turned out not to be a pressing danger, he’d…

Well, Llewellyn had needed him, he’d been happy to be good to him. He’d felt guilty about some of it, but it had felt good, too, and he hadn’t been able to resist touching him, little ways. His face, his hair, his shoulders, as he’d fussed over getting him warm and dry again. He’d done his best not to look at him, as a lover, when he’d helped him out of his wet shirt and into a borrowed sweater. The sleeves had been so short on him, and the body of it was barely long enough, but it fit the span of him well enough. The color had suited him well enough, not that that had mattered. And… it had set a warmth off in him, to see Llewellyn wearing his sweater. The one he often changed into on a winter’s evening, when he came home and showered off the smell of the day.

And he hadn’t needed to try very hard, to push aside any thoughts of his own desire, with the state Llewellyn had been in. It had inspired a great warmth and a strengthening of those feelings best described as love, but it hadn’t inspired _heat_ , to have him in such a state. He’d needed love, but he hadn’t needed a lover. It was easy just to be kind to him, to be good to him, and to not think about the fact that this was someone he’d found himself very much attracted to, someone he desired even beyond mere physical lust. He’d cooked for him, been at a loss to do anything except make what he’d planned for his own breakfast the next morning for Llewellyn’s supper that evening, and that might have been that, except…

Llewellyn came back to himself over that meal, went from shivering and near-catatonic to fully in control of himself over that meal-- well, fully in control of himself perhaps, but not in control of his appetite, and Jack…

He’d wanted to feed him. He’d wanted to _have_ him. He hadn’t done either-- even though he’d come back to himself, Llewellyn was fragile, and Jack could never have forgiven himself if he’d taken advantage of a long, dark night of the soul-- not to mention the ordeal on his body, being caught out in that storm-- just to sate his own desires. But after everything, he had wanted… he had wanted to hold him close as he gently fed him each bite, to fuss over him and kiss his cheeks, his jaw, his throat. He’d wanted to spread his hand over the soft, warm skin of his belly and fancy he felt him a little less flat, even if there really was no perceptible difference, and he’d been more ashamed of that want then, but now…

Now, when it’s Llewellyn’s choice to allow him, when he isn’t helpless at all, when he isn’t upset, when they’ve had a lovely evening, it’s different. Isn’t it different?

“Oh.” Llewellyn says, and Jack can’t read his expression at all.

“It’s not that I want you to be helpless.” He clarifies, just in case. “It’s just that I want… something.”

“To take care of me.” That unreadable expression shifts. And… even if that’s not all of it, Jack thinks that’s enough of it. That’s at the root of it. “I’m… learning how to let you.”

“I like this. If you do.” His face heats, but then he thinks Llewellyn blushes, too-- even if it’s not as immediately and starkly visible. Jack has always blushed too readily. “If it’s not…”

“No, I-- I think I do. You should get a taste for yourself, though-- or, should I? For you?” Llewellyn asks, taking the fork from him, his hands a little clumsy-- it’s not nerves, by now Jack knows that, it’s just the way he is with a fork, which perhaps explains why he prefers to eat street food on the move than to sit down at a table, and yet…

He doesn’t know. There’s something about it he still finds himself charmed by, though it’s hard to say why. Because… because it would hardly be fair if Llewellyn was good at everything, perhaps, or because it tugs at that part of himself which wants to be needed, even though Llewellyn doesn’t actually need him, doesn’t need help. He’s clumsy, not incapable. 

He puts _effort_ into this, into holding the fork straight and steady, that he might feed a bite to Jack in return. 

It’s sweet, that he puts that effort in, and it’s not at all unpleasant to be fed, he does like it for a single bite. The same spark isn’t there, he can tell it’s not there for either of them the same way. Still, it’s sweet… still, he would never say no to being fed just a bite, in private, any time Llewellyn offered it. It’s nice to be cared for a little in return. 

There’s just no fire under it.

It is a very good cake, and there’s plenty of it-- maybe more than they need, though he supposes some depends on how much he can remember to feed himself, and much depends on how greatly his desires are inflamed by the act of feeding Llewellyn. 

Already, he thinks it’s going to be… quite a lot. It’s the way Llewellyn moans with even less restraint over his second bite, how he leans forward, how he licks his lips… How, when Jack is slightly unfocused in the wake of that moan, and he smears just a little pastry cream across his lip, he wipes at it before Jack can do it for him only to lick his finger clean again, which only serves to remind Jack of their earlier moment. 

It’s how he is uncomplaining and unhesitant, when Jack lifts the glass to his lips, how he lets him tilt the wine past his lips, how he pauses to let it roll over his tongue before swallowing, which leaves Jack taking a heavy swallow for himself. 

He really is a lamb… sweet, _docile_. That’s what this care makes him, and there’s a thrill in that which Jack hardly dares probe at. Seeing Llewellyn so… he hardly knows how to put it, but as much as he is captivated, Llewellyn is under his sway, too. Gone is the rabbity, frightened pushback to the idea that someone might care for him. His mouth falls open every time Jack lifts a forkful of cake to him, and he hums his appreciation around each bite, and his eyes, his eyes are wide and shining… are dark with feeling, are aglow with trust. With what he thinks might be love, but not like any love he’s ever known.

There are things he does not yet dare. He rests one hand at the side of Llewellyn’s neck, curved around him, gentle, and he thinks about what it would be, to remove his tie and his starched stiff collar, to feel him _swallow_. He can feel the little jump just where the heel of his hand touches the underside of Llewellyn’s jaw, and that much is intoxicating, the idea of actually feeling the progress of that swallow, the bob of his throat, is dizzying. 

There is a part of him that wants to tear into the cake with his fingers, to scoop up the pastry cream, more than the single flirtatious fingerful of earlier. To push past Llewellyn’s lips and be licked clean, sucked at with abandon, to feel and fill his mouth. To feel the reverberation of his moaning, to feel his own ravenous desire, to make it moreso. There is a part of him that wants to hold him in place as he does so, though it hardly seems necessary to, given Llewellyn’s own enjoyment. To wind a hand in his hair or hold the back of his neck, to straddle his lap and push more upon him and not stop, forgo any more bites of his own in order to feed every last crumb to this man…

That path frightens him a little, is more than he is prepared to contemplate just yet. It feels too rough for this gentle man, for _Llewellyn_ , his beloved, his lamb, who is all sweetness for him now. Besides which, the cake is a lot for two, it would be far too much, too rich, for one alone. The idea of soothing him through feeling ill might bring with it a spark of warmth, but the idea of being responsible for that ill feeling is one he doesn’t enjoy. It’s just that he doesn’t want to stop this, not now that it’s his. 

“That’s right…” He coos, the words escape him before he can censor himself, he lets his thumb caress the underside of Llewellyn’s jaw just to be able to feel that same little motion as he swallows. And there’s a question in the look Llewellyn gives him which he has no real answer for, or at least not yet. He brushes his thumb next over Llewellyn’s lips, lets his focus rest on them a moment. “Good, isn’t it?”

Llewellyn nods, though the question is still there. But the trust is still there, too, absolute.

There’s something frightening in that much trust, from a man who’s never… So many things he’s never done. The idea of another man having this sway over him makes Jack feel a little ill, he has to banish the thought with another bite for them each, another sip of wine, another moment to run a hand through Llewellyn’s hair. He’s with _him_. No one else can have him like this, so sweet and trusting. No one is going to take advantage of him, Jack very much included. He will take things slowly, with him. He will make sure he understands his options, make sure his pleasure comes first. Make sure this trust placed in him is not misplaced. 

Still, he _wants_. He _aches_. He looks into Llewellyn’s eyes as he feeds him and knows that in this moment, with the spell unbroken, if he asked him for something he would be granted it. He would be allowed to slide his thumb into that waiting mouth, with or without the enticement of pastry cream, allowed to bid him _suck_ , allowed to guide his hand… or allowed to bring him to his knees and slide something else past those lips, to…

Perhaps there are things he could ask which would shatter the moment, but somehow he thinks not many, and he doesn’t know how to feel about that. But they’ve eaten enough and perhaps… perhaps they ought to leave the table, let some of this heady feeling fade before embarking upon any further intimacies.

Little as he wants it to fade, much as he doubts it can, but… more comfortable chairs, at least.

“Will you come and sit with me, where it’s a little more comfortable? Where I could… engage you, a little more?” He asks, and there’s a fresh thrill as he extends his hand, as Llewellyn takes it, as he sees his gaze flicker away only to return, just as open and just as willing and just as sweet.

“I would like that.” Llewellyn says, his own voice low, and he lets himself be drawn to his feet and led, as easy as if they were once more dancing.

Whatever does come tonight, perhaps there really is nothing to fear, for either of them.


End file.
